Chapter 623: [Side Story] Boundary Marker 3: The Doctor Outside the Wall

On the border of Pennsylvania and Ohio, alongside Route 30.

The blizzard was still raging.

This was a true wasteland.

The streetlights had died out two miles back, leaving only the car’s headlamps to illuminate the swirling white flakes ahead.

Joe Miller pulled the beat-up Chevrolet onto the gravel shoulder.

He cut the engine.

The engine’s roar vanished, replaced by the sound of wind lashing against the windows.

Directly in front of him was a long-abandoned gas station.

The pumps had long since been dismantled, leaving only a few rusted bases.

The convenience store sign hung crookedly, half-detached, but light spilled from its windows.

It was a harsh light—the sterile, ghastly white of high-powered fluorescent tubes.

Joe Miller pulled his jacket tighter and reached for his waist.

His pistol was still in its holster.

He glanced at the passenger seat.

A black cooler sat there, containing fifty vials of NovoRapid insulin he had "recovered" from Pittsburgh.

This was the bait.

Over the past three days, he had followed the thread from a young man in a Dodge all the way to this supposed central warehouse.

The young driver was just a courier.

This was the nerve center.

Joe Miller pushed the car door open. He pulled the brim of his cap down low, grabbed the cooler, and crunched through the snow toward the glass door, which was papered over with old newsprint.

A burly man in a military-style greatcoat stood at the door.

The man held a baseball bat. He glanced at Joe Miller, then at the cooler in his hand.

"The goods?" the man asked.

"The goods," Miller replied. "Fresh from the South District."

The big man stepped aside, clearing a path.

Miller pushed the door open.

A strange smell hit him.

Disinfectant.

It was thick and acrid, mixed with alcohol and the scent of some cheap air freshener.

Miller squinted, his eyes adjusting to the harsh indoor light.

The layout was bizarre.

The area where shelves once stood had been cleared out, replaced by rows of white commercial refrigerators.

Cardboard boxes were stacked in the corners, stamped with the logos of various medical device companies.

In the center of the room stood a large stainless-steel worktable.

A man stood before the table, his back to the door, busy with something.

He wore a faded white lab coat and held a notepad, taking inventory of the contents of the refrigerators.

"On the table," the man said without turning around.

Miller walked over and placed the cooler on the stainless-steel surface.

"Fifty vials, all from this week’s new batch," Miller said.

The man turned around.

Miller froze for a second.

He had expected to see a brutish drug lord or a slick black-market dealer.

But the man before him was in his sixties.

His hair was a mess, and he wore a pair of thick, coke-bottle glasses, one of the arms held together with tape.

Three ballpoint pens were stuck in his lab coat pocket, and a stethoscope was clipped to the breast pocket.

He looked like a kindly old doctor who’d spent his entire life working in a small-town clinic.

"Let’s see it," the old man said, pointing at the cooler.

Miller opened the lid.

The old man leaned in, picked up a vial, and held it up to the light for careful inspection.

His movements were practiced and professional.

He checked for cloudiness in the liquid, cracks in the vial, and any tampering with the production date.

"Kept in good condition," the old man said with a nod. He pulled a thick wad of cash from his pocket.

"Five thousand US Dollars. That’s the going rate."

A hundred US Dollars a vial.

Miller stared at the wad of bills.

He didn’t take it.

His hand shot to his waist.

"Don’t move!"

The black maw of the gun’s muzzle was pointed between the old man’s eyes.

"Rust Belt Health Mutual Aid Alliance, Compliance Division."

Miller’s voice was cold and hard, laced with professional authority.

"You’re under investigation for the illegal acquisition and resale of controlled substances, and for defrauding the mutual aid fund."

"Hands on your head. Turn around."

Hearing the commotion, the large bodyguard at the door started to rush in.

"Don’t move!" Miller yelled. "Police! Stay right there if you want to live!"

The big man froze, looking uncertainly at the old man.

The old man didn’t raise his hands.

He didn’t show the slightest trace of panic.

Still holding the vial of insulin, he carefully placed it inside the refrigerator behind him, shut the door, and made sure the cold air wasn’t escaping.

Only then did he turn back to face the barrel of Miller’s gun.

He adjusted his glasses.

"Are you one of the Mayor of Pittsburgh’s men?" the old man asked.

"I am the law," Miller corrected him.

"The law?"

The old man chuckled.

"Officer, what’s your department? Homicide? Narcotics?"

"Homicide," Miller answered. "Enough talk. Hands up."

"Then you must have seen a drug den before."

The old man gestured at his surroundings.

"Take a look around."

"Do you see piles of cash? Gold bars? Thugs with submachine guns?"

"All you’ll find here is medicine."

"And a generator running twenty-four seven just to keep that medicine from going bad."

The old man walked over to the worktable and picked up the notepad.

"My name is Edgar Stone. You can look it up. My medical license was revoked five years ago for prescribing too many painkillers to uninsured patients."

"Around here, everyone just calls me ’Doc’."

Dr. Stone tossed the notepad to Miller.

"Take a look at this ledger."

Miller didn’t move. His gun remained trained on Stone.

"Just look."

Stone flipped open the ledger.

"Acquisition cost: one hundred US dollars. Add in transportation, cold chain storage, and the couriers’ fees... the average cost per vial comes to one hundred and thirty-five US dollars."

"I sell them for one hundred fifty."

"I make fifteen US dollars per vial."